God of Tarot (23 page)

The demon struggled, but it was useless. Brother Paul knew how to apply a stranglehold. He would not kill the creature, but would merely squeeze it unconscious. It would revive in a few minutes, unharmed— but too late to stop him from entering the castle. Temptation postponed might well be Temptation vanquished!

The seconds passed—and still the thing fought. The hold was tight, yet it seemed to have no effect. What was the matter?

The demon’s arm came around, groping for Brother Paul’s face. Sharp nails scraped across his cheek toward his right eye. He knew he would lose an eye if he did not get it out of reach in a hurry, but to do that he would have to release the strangle. This creature was not bound by polite rules of sport-combat!

Obviously the stranglehold had failed. The vascular system of demons seemed to be proof against the attack of mortals. Temptation could not be so simply nullified. Brother Paul let go and jumped up and away.

“I am a dragon,” the demon said, standing. “I have no circulation, no blood. I operate magically. I need breath only to talk. You cannot throttle Temptation, fool!”

Evidently not! Brother Paul stepped toward the castle again, and the demon blocked his passage as before, grinning.

Brother Paul’s left hand caught it by the right arm, jerking it forward. His right arm came up as if to circle the thing’s impervious neck. The demon laughed contemptuously and pulled back, resisting both the throw and the strangle.

But Brother Paul’s right arm went right on over the demon’s head, missing it entirely. He twisted around as though hopelessly tangled, falling to the sand. But the weight of his falling body jerked the demon forward over his back. It was
soto
makikomi
, the outside wraparound throw, a strange and powerful sacrifice technique. The demon landed heavily, with Brother Paul on top; such was the power of the throw that an ordinary man could have been knocked unconscious. Immediately Brother Paul spun around, flipped the demon onto its face, and applied an excruciating arm-lock, one of the
kansetsu
waza
. The demon might not have blood, but it had to have joints, and they were levered like those of a man. Such a joint could be broken, but he intended to apply only enough leverage to make the creature submit. In this position, there was no way the demon could strike back; no biting, no kicking, no gouging.

He levered the arm, bending the elbow back expertly. The demon screamed “Do you yield?” Brother Paul inquired, easing up slightly.

For answer, the demon changed back into the dragon, its original and perhaps natural form. Brother Paul had hold of one of its legs, but the ratios were different, and the lock could not be maintained. The monster’s jaws opened, its orange tongue flicking out to lash at Brother Paul’s face, whiplike. He had to let go quickly.

“So you couldn’t take it,” he said to the dragon. “You lost!”

“Temptation never loses; it is merely blunted, to return with renewed strength. I balk you yet.” And the dragon moved to stand once again between Brother Paul and the castle.

Brother Paul turned to Therion, who had stood by innocently while all of this occurred. “What do you say now, guide?”

“Have a drink,” Therion said, presenting a tall, cool cup of liquid.

“I don’t need any—” he started to reply, but he
was
thirsty, and in this situation the refreshment cup was appropriate and tempting. Maybe he was too hot and bothered to perceive the obvious—whatever that was. With a cooler, cleared head he might quickly figure out the solution to this maddening problem of the Dragon. He accepted the drink.

It was delicious, heady stuff, but after the first sip, he paused. “This is alcoholic!” he said accusingly.

“Naturally. The best stuff there is, for courage.”

“Courage!” Brother Paul’s wrath was near the explosion-point. “I don’t need that kind! My Order disapproves of alcohol and other mind-affecting drugs. Get me some water.”

“No water is available; this is a desert,” Therion said imperturbably. “Does your Order actually ban alcohol?”

“No. The Holy Order of Vision bans nothing, for that would interfere with free will. It merely frowns on those things that are most commonly subject to abuse. Each person is expected to set his own standards in matters of the flesh. But only those persons of suitable standards progress within the Order.”

“Uh-huh,” Therion said disparagingly. “So you are a slave to your Order’s inhibitions, and dare not even admit it.”

“No!” Brother Paul gulped down the rest of the beverage, yielding to his consuming thirst.

The effect was instantaneous. His limbs tingled; his head felt pleasantly light. That was good stuff, after all!

Brother Paul faced the dragon, who was still between him and the castle, smirking. “I’ve had enough of you, Temptation.
Get out of my way
!”

“Make me, mushmind!”

Brother Paul drew his gleaming sword. He strode forward menacingly, bluffing the beast back. When the thing did not retreat, he smote the red dragon with all his strength—and cut its gruesome head in half. Sure enough, there was no blood, just a spongy material like foam plastic within the skull. The creature expired with a hiss like that of escaping steam and fell on its back in the sand, its little legs quivering convulsively.

“Well, I made it move,” he said, wiping the green goo off his blade by rubbing it in the sand.

“You certainly did,” Therion agreed.

“So let’s get the hell on to that castle before the dragon revives.”

“Well spoken!”

But now a new obstacle stood between them and the objective. It was another cup—the one containing the Victory Wreath. The braided twigs and leaves stood tall and green above the chalice, the two ends not quite meeting.

“Take it,” Therion urged. “You have won it. You have slain Temptation!”

Brother Paul considered. “Yes, I suppose I have.” Somehow he was not wholly satisfied, but the pleasure of the drink still buoyed him. “Why not?”

He reached out and lifted the wreath from the meter-tall cup. Strange that this, too, should appear in his vision of the castle; had his choice of one cup granted him
all
cups? Somehow his quest was not proceeding precisely as he had anticipated.

He set the wreath on his head. It settled nicely, feeling wonderful.

“Very handsome,” Therion said approvingly. “You make a fitting Conqueror.”

Yes, this
was
Key Seven, the Chariot, the Conqueror, wasn’t it? With the Seven of Cups superimposed. Brother Paul bent down to view his image in the reflective surface of the polished golden cup. And froze, startled.

His image was a death’s head. A grinning skull, with protruding yellow teeth and great square eye sockets.

Brother Paul rocked back, horrified. There was something he remembered, something so appalling—

No! He shut it off. This was only a reflection, nothing supernatural. He forced himself to look again. The death’s head remained.

Experimentally, he moved his face. The skull moved too. He opened his mouth, and the bony jaw dropped. He blinked, but of course the skull could not blink, and if it could, how could he see it while his own eyes were closed?

His left hand came up to feel his face. A skeletal hand touched the skull in the cup. His nose and cheeks were there; the flesh was solid. The skull was merely an image, not reality. But what did it mean?

“Let’s not dawdle,” Therion said. “The dragon is not going to play dead all day.”

Regretfully, Brother Paul stood up and circled around the cup. He was sure the skull meant something important. If it were part of the natural symbolism of this card, why hadn’t he noticed it before? If not, why had it appeared now? He had encountered this card many times before coming to Planet Tarot; had the skull been on the cup then? He couldn’t remember. There was something—something hidden and awful—but he
did
have a mission. Maybe the explanation would come to him.

He moved on. Then he realized he could have checked the blinking of the skull by winking one eye and watching with the other. He was thinking fuzzily, though his mind seemed perfectly clear. Well, it was of insufficient moment to make him return for another look at the cup. If it remained.

He glanced back. The huge cup was still there, and beyond it, the body of the dragon. He regretted the slaying; he really shouldn’t have done it. He was not ordinarily a violent man. What had come over him?

His mouth had a bad taste, and a headache was starting. His stomach roiled as though wishing to disgorge its contents. “I don’t feel well,” he said.

“A little hangover,” Therion said quickly. “Ignore it; it will pass.”

Hangover? Oh—a reaction from the drink. Instant high, rapid low. It figured!

Now they were at the castle environs, mounting the winding pathway that led up the steep mountain upon which it perched. Progress was swift, for it was a very narrow mountain, but Brother Paul was tiring even more rapidly. Then he saw an inlet in the almost vertical clifi face, a kind of cave. And in this cave stood another cup. It was filled to overflowing with jewels: pearls, diamonds, and assorted other gems. Beautiful!

Brother Paul started for it, but found himself abruptly too tired to get all the way there. He also saw, now, that the cup was within a kind of cage, with a combination lock. In the lock was a picture of three lemons in a row.

“Oh—an ancient one-armed bandit,” he muttered. “Well, I don’t like to gamble.”

“But look at the potential reward!” Therion exclaimed. “You could be rich—a multimillionaire in any currency you name!”

“Wealth means nothing to me. Brothers and Sisters of the Order dedicate their lives to nonmaterial things, to simplicity, to doing good.”

“But think of all the good you could do with that fortune!”

“I just want to get into the castle and find the answer to my quest,” Brother Paul said. “If I can only get up the strength to complete the climb…”

“Here, have a sniff of this,” Therion said, opening a tiny but ornate silver box.

Brother Paul looked at it. The box was filled with a whitish powder. “What is it?”

“A stimulant. Used for centuries to enable people to work harder without fatigue. Completely safe, non-addictive. Try it.” He shoved it under Brother Paul’s nose, and Brother Paul sniffed almost involuntarily.

The effect was amazing. Suddenly he felt terrific strong, healthy, clear-minded. “Wow! What is it?”

“Cocaine.”

“Cocaine! You lied to me! That’s one of the worst of addictive drugs!”

Therion shook his head solemnly. “Not so. There is no physiological dependence. It is nature’s purest stimulant, without harmful aftereffects. Much better than alcohol. But if you disbelieve, simply return the sample.”

“Return the sniff? How can I do that?”

“It’s your Animation. You can do anything.”

Brother Paul wondered. If he could do anything, why couldn’t he find his way
out
of this morass? Well, maybe he could, if he just willed it strongly enough. But he felt so good now, why change it? He did want to achieve the castle, after all, and he had already invested a lot of effort in that quest that would be wasted if he quit now. “Oh, let it stand.”

His eyes returned to the cup of jewels. “But first, this detail.” He strode across to the cage and reached for the handle of the one-armed bandit. “What do I have to put into this machine, to play the game?”

“A piddling price. Just one-seventh of your soul.”

“Done!” Brother Paul said, laughing. And felt a strange wrenching that disconcerted him momentarily. If the price per cup were one-seventh, and there were seven cups in all, and he had already been through several… but he felt so good that he soon forgot it. He drew down powerfully on the handle.

The symbols spun blurringly past in the window of the lock. Swords, wands, disks, and something indistinct—perhaps lemniscates? What had happened to the lemons? Then they came to rest: one cup—two cups—three cups!

The cage door swung open. The cup tilted forward. Its riches spilled out over the floor of the cave. Jackpot!

“I gambled and won!” Brother Paul exclaimed.

Therion nodded. “It’s your Animation,” he repeated. “I merely show the way to your fulfillment.”

There was something about that statement—oh, never mind! “Donate these jewels to the charities of the world,” Brother Paul said. “I must proceed.” He stepped carefully over the glittering gems in his path and left the cave.

The ascent was easy again. In moments he reached the front portal. It was open, and he marched into the castle.

“Like the palace of Sleeping Beauty,” Therion remarked.

“Like a fairy tale, yes,” Brother Paul agreed.

For some reason Therion found that gaspingly funny. “Show me what you laugh at, and I will show you what you are,” he said between gasps. But it was he, not Brother Paul, who was laughing. Odd man!

“Strange,” Brother Paul said, “how I start an Animation sequence to find out what is causing Animations, and find myself diverted into this fantasy world, where I must slay a dragon and see my reflection as a skull and gamble one-seventh of my soul on a worldly treasure I don’t need. Why can’t I just penetrate to the root immediately?”

“You could, if you knew how,” Therion said.

“I acquired you as a guide! Why can’t you show me the way?”

“I
am
showing you the way. In my fashion. But the impetus must be yours.”

“I never sought to slay a dragon! Or gamble for riches! You and your damned drugs—”

“Apt description, that.”

And why was he swearing, since he was not a swearing man? There was a lot of wrongness here, intertwined with the intrigue. “What do I do now?” Brother Paul demanded irritably.

“Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.”

“You said that before. But it doesn’t help. It’s from Rabelais, which I gather is prime source material for you. Here I am, restrained from doing what I wilt. What I wish, I mean. And you just tag along, spouting irrelevancies.”

Therion turned to face him seriously. “However right you may be in your purpose, and in thinking that purpose important, you are wrong in forgetting the equal or greater importance of other things. The really important things are huge, silent, and inexorable.”